


Quicksand

by ridorana



Series: let's get rabanasty [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 22:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15399300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridorana/pseuds/ridorana
Summary: Vaan is not the best temptation with which to practice one's self control.





	Quicksand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TomatoGraffiti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomatoGraffiti/gifts).



When Balthier had said he preferred the gods to toy with him, he had meant it in a poetic sense: his fate an unpredictable hand, the sky an ever-vast mystery, his life a stage where the script is different at every turn. To be kept on the balls of his feet, ready to run and chase at a moment's notice, is a life he chose when he severed his shackles from a role he knew would leave him as another cog in the great wheel of mundanity.

What he had _not_ meant by that sentiment was granting permission for said gods to dangle a nubile desert boy in front of him, as comely as he is obnoxious, as dense as he is optimistic, as maddeningly oblivious as he is tempting.

A man can only take so much.

There are many ways Vaan has tortured Balthier since the start of their journey, and the pirate contemplates them now in the quiet of the cockpit. It’s something to think about at least; a quandary puzzling enough to keep him awake. All things considered, Balthier should be asleep at this hour; but he’s still up past midnight, flying the Strahl over the Naldoan from Bhujerba to Balfonheim.

In the past few weeks his self-control has been tested time and time again by the street thief; from walking in on the boy during a hot-spring bath, flushed and naked and wet - to watching him bend and stretch in the morning accompanied by little pleased noises in the back of his throat - to the very way he quaffs from his waterskin, messy and desperate until it dribbles down his chin - Balthier has found himself wall to wall with the tantalizing and maddeningly magnetic Dalmascan thief no matter where he turns.

No matter where Balthier turns to avert his gaze, Vaan manifests in some way or another with more reason for the pirate to spirit them off alone and debauch a comfy inn bed a few times.

Few dozen times.

“Balthier?” The sleepy voice of the little devil in question carries across the cockpit softly. Balthier wants to laugh - truly, the gods must be toying with him, to have the brat show up now. Everyone should be asleep, dammit.

“Yes?” an equally as quiet hum as he turns his head to acknowledge Vaan. “What are you doing up at this–”

Balthier’s mouth snaps shut so quickly his teeth clack together. None of these recent instances of Vaan's appeal could quite prepare him for the desire that sparks from seeing Vaan there in his shirt.

In _only_ his shirt.

Disheveled and heavy-lidded, Vaan stands under the arc of the cockpit entry. His tanned skin, aglow with the night-mode of the Strahl’s dimmed interior lights, is saturated further against the crisp starch of his tunic. It’s too big for him by several sizes - evidence enough by the way he’s had to roll the cuffs to push them below his elbow, an endeavor he clearly grew tired of because only one manages to be rolled while the other hangs well over his fingers. The cuff itself must be the size of his hand, and Vaan brings it up to rub at his sleepy eyes.

“I was coming out here to ask you the same. It’s past midnight y’know.”

Balthier’s gaze rakes downwards. He stops when he reaches the hem of the shirt which barely ghosts halfway down Vaan’s thighs – thighs equally as tanned, equally as pleasing as the rest of him. He tries not to imagine them wrapped around his waist as he fucks the boy senseless, and fails.

Internally, Balthier damns every last god by their name before he speaks.

“Is that my shirt?” his voice comes out as a croak. Hypothetical, of course, but it's all he can muster given the circumstance.

“Huh?” Vaan looks down at the shirt - that Balthier has just realized he’s buttoned of order - and shrugs. “Oh. Yeah. I couldn’t find anything else to sleep in and your door was open.”

Balthier isn’t sure what annoys him most - that Vaan exists at all, that Vaan went through his things, or that Vaan has never looked more fuckable.

The want that smites him is enough to leave Balthier momentarily stunned. _It’s not even supposed to be sexy._ By Faram, it is just his own shirt that’s three sizes too big on Vaan - nothing particularly seductive in the slightest - and yet he’s never wanted to claim the boy more than he does now. Perhaps it's this exact juxtaposition of such allure and innocence which leaves the gunman at a loss.

It’s the last thing Balthier should say to the nymph in pirate’s clothing, but he says, “Come here,” and Vaan does. Closer now, Vaan's face catches the flickering light of the control panel, a dim kaleidoscope of glowing blues and greens that fleck across his eyes. He watches it with an interest subdued by his sleepy state and probably opens his mouth to ask about night-flying, but Balthier cuts him off.

“You’ve done the buttons all wrong,” Balthier chides, motioning for Vaan to step closer as he reaches out. He’s not sure when he’s suddenly become a masochist, but it’s too late to wonder as he undoes the several buttons from Vaan’s sternum down to his waist. Little by little he unearths more of his body, revealing a swath of smooth tanned skin and lower, across his belly, a dusting of light golden hair. Balthier clenches his jaw at the image of running his tongue along it.

Oh, how his hands beg to unwrap Vaan; like a gift he knows he doesn’t deserve, but the Gods seemed to have dropped off at his doorstep anyway, only for the brat to end up being Pandora’s Box.

He imagines it too easily - Vaan writhing, gasping beneath the work of Balthier’s lips and teeth, surrendered to the rhythm of his thorough and slow thrusts, begging Balthier’s name in fragments all while his unbuttoned shirt blooms open on either side to reveal Vaan’s parted perfect thighs and ripe virgin flesh.

The fantasy goes straight to his cock, and his hands fumble. Vaan doesn't miss it.

“You sure you’re any better at this than I am? Does Fran dress you in the morning?”

“You’re hardly in a position to criticize.” And to make matters worse, he thinks of a different position altogether, one that shuts him right up with a mouth full of cock.

 _Focus, Balthier. Keep it together._ Gods, how long has it been since he’s had the flesh of another? Long enough to make the idea of sinking his teeth into Vaan’s pretty neck a viable option and long enough to make him want to bury himself in the boy over and over and over again.

Autonomously he re-fastens the tunic, even going higher than Vaan thought necessary before, because if he has to look at the smooth line of his collarbone any longer he’ll have to explain to Fran why she found them naked and fucking in the cockpit. By the time he reaches the top, he’s looking up at Vaan’s lips that have curved into a gentle smile.

“You done?”

His eyes, however, hold another story altogether. One that almost begs Balthier to indulge in exactly what’s been plaguing him since he first saw the brat after a fresh scrubbing and good night’s rest. Balthier’s hands still hold the panel of the tunic’s buttons and he knows that with a quick yank he could bring the boy toppling on his waiting lap to claim him right there.

The desire is so heady it makes Balthier dizzy. This close, and he can smell the soap Vaan’s been using in the tiny Strahl shower, and it clings to his skin even after he’s rinsed it off. It’s not even a particularly exotic scent; merely something just clean, but on Vaan’s skin he breathes it in as something akin to an aphrodisiac.

“Yes. Next time think twice about wearing my wardrobe if you’re going to muss it up.”

"So it's okay if I wear it?"

Seeing Vaan in his shirt is both the best and worst thing to happen to him as of late and he's caught between choking out a _Yes, damn you_  or forbidding him to ever don it again.

So Balthier merely swallows thickly, and unrolls the sleeve Vaan sought to push halfway up his arm. He re-folds it in a proper cuff, crisp and neat, and with each passing roll of fabric he aims to smother the crackle of lust ignited in just the past few moments.

"Don't you have your own proper bedclothes? Surely you needn't go out of your way to rumple mine in sleep if you deign to wear so little while awake."

"Kinda," Vaan answers, infuriatingly enough, "but this is really soft. And anyway, how do I look? Like a proper sky pirate?"

Balthier deadpans a stare up at Vaan's smile. _You look like a gods-bedamned catamite,_ he wants to say, but merely he shakes his head. "You look like a nosy little thief drowning in sky pirate's clothing."

But if the sentiment stings at Vaan's pride, he doesn't show it. He just rolls his eyes. For a moment, he catches Balthier's gaze, and there is both everything and nothing at all hidden in the twitch of his mouth as he smiles.

Half of Balthier wants Vaan to leave - to turn and go back to bloody _bed_ and leave him be with the Strahl - the only thing in his life it seems that he knows how to control. But the chit just leans against Fran’s chair casually and looks out at the stars. The idle pass of night-clouds through the windglass reflects in his eyes and that smile from before has softened into a quiet wonder. His profile is rounded and so very Dalmascan it makes Balthier ache - everywhere, in and out. Distantly he grips the yoke of the Strahl, returning his hands to something - anything - than the boy they were just on.

“When’re we getting to Bhujerba?” Vaan asks, glancing back down at the gunman, eyeing the work of his hands over the yoke. His voice is still sleepy, as though he’s just woken up to check on him. “You’ve gotta be tired. I woke up and we were still in the air, so I figured…”

Great. A depraved fantasy come to life and he has the nerve to be concerned over Balthier’s wellbeing? Can Addrammalech strike him down here and now with a swift bolt of lightning, or must Balthier continue to entertain the company of what he is sure to be a siren in disguise?

“A good pilot can withstand any distraction,” Balthier murmurs, more for himself than anyone. He resists the urge to slam his head against the console repeatedly. Doing so would just be unsightly, very un-Leading-Man-esque, and the Strahl hardly deserves the brunt of his own loathsome depravity. He'd rather take that out on his own cock anyway. “Sleep is of the many I forego to get where I need to be. Now–if that’s all you came to bother me for, scurry back to bed. We’ll be docked in an hour’s time.”

When Balthier leans back in his seat, he is suddenly made aware of the tightness in his groin straining like hell against his leathers. Gods, it aches.

“Whatever,” Vaan mutters, rubbing at his eyes again. “Just get some sleep soon, ‘kay?”

“Off with you,” Balthier says, waving a hand and pretending to do Very Important Things with the controls to stave off the temptation to ask Vaan nicely if he'd get on his knees and suck him off good and dry while he lounges in the captain's chair.

Vaan shuffles away lazily, a mumbled “G’night," the last thing he says before his footsteps fade. He almost sounds a little disappointed.

Only when Balthier hears the sign of the guest cabin-door slide shut does he undo the laces of his trousers. It wasn't on his agenda to stroke one out before they even dock; he likes to save that for the privacy of his own cabin lest Fran make a snide comment about the scent. But he's the captain, dammit, and if Fran wanted her cockpit free of hume musk maybe she shouldn't have left him alone in the middle of the night with the potential for Vaan to saunter in half-clad in his own goddamned shirt.

The shaft springs free the aching strain of its confines, and Balthier wastes no time taking himself in hand with a pleased hiss. His jaw loosens as he slides on the upstroke, slow and leisure. He's in no rush. An hour to Bhujerba is plenty of time. He spreads his legs, props one foot up on the console, and lolls his head back against the chair. As he begins a ritual he knows by now, the pirate watches his reflection in the windglass, and thinks wryly that Vaan is an awful temptation with which to practice his restraint.

There was some snare in the Dalmascan's eyes earlier, in the knowing twitch of his grin, and as Balthier imagines it, he picks up the pace between his legs.

He wonders what Vaan would say if he ever invited him to his cabin for a night alone.

The suspicion he's held in the recesses of his mind that Vaan wouldn't say no helps matters little. His own ego aside, Balthier isn't entirely oblivious to Vaan's wide-eyed wonderment of him - a wonderment that speaks of more than piracy and wings.

It is that knowledge alone that both attracts and repels him. He has a theory Vaan would be difficult to pry away from after a good, solid romp, and Balthier - despite popular belief he isn't particularly compelled to deny - is hardly the type to leave broken hearts in his wake. Messy business, that. He'd rather have a quick lay with another stranger in the dark and be done with it.

But oh - he imagines it again, Vaan's face open in ecstasy as Balthier finds him again and again only for them to collapse in a heap of sweat and skin and satisfaction, and he bucks into his own hand helplessly. It's just too good. In the drunken bias of his lust Balthier throws risk to the wind and thinks, _I must have him._

Behind the curtain of his lids Balthier searches the darkness for a reason to deny himself of Vaan any longer, and when he cannot find one strong enough to outweigh the indulgence, he feels his orgasm build in purposeful, definitive increments. Close--so close, he thinks as his throat tightens.

He stops his hand abruptly. The sudden loss of friction makes his cock throb angrily - he was so close, so _achingly_ close, but Balthier merely teases the underside of the shaft with a light touch once, twice, before tucking it back in the confines of his pants. It strains worse than before, burns like hellfire in a bitter protest, but Balthier knows how this works by now. It'll just make his release even better later. As Bhujerba's airspace begins to crest upon the Strahl's sensors, Balthier decides he'll save it for Vaan.

It's his fault anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> tomatograffitti sent me the tumblr prompt "I didn't mean to turn you on" for BalVaan and so they got it.


End file.
